21
by Werefox Alchemist
Summary: In which Hiruma is obsessive over a card game, among other things, gets drunk, and loses the team funds. HirumaxSena. Oneshot.


It was late, even for Vegas, thus meaning that really it was early. Still, he sat at the table, long after everyone else had gone. Still, the dealer stayed. The guy kept losing, but dam if he wasn't persistent. Someone like that is bound to have a chip the size of Texas on his shoulder. But here's a secret about Las Vegas card dealers: they don't care. If the money's stolen, if it's three a.m. and their shift's been over for two of those, they don't care as long as you're paying them. This guy kept playing, on and on into the wee hours of the morning without winning once. Any sane person would have given in, but not him. And he was loaded.

In more ways than one. A shot glass of gin sat on the card table, the liquid being drained and refilled constantly from a handy bottle. He gulped it down and, finding empty, abandoned the glass in favor of something more substantial. Taking a deep quaff from the bottle, the blonde-haired demon slurred, "Hit me, damn dealer."

Not believing his good fortune, the dealer slapped down a card. The young man groaned and tipped his head back, finishing off all but the last dregs of the liquid, nearly falling off his chair in the process. An eight. Combined with his previous two cards, a king and a ten, he was out. The small stack of chips that he'd bet were swept away from his side.

"Time to go, Mac," the dealer said testily, trying to haul Hiruma up and out of the deserted casino.

"I've still got cash," Hiruma growled, watching the magic as the dealer dropped him. It just wasn't fair. The damn game bore no more love for him than Fate did, and hell only knew what end of the deal he was getting on that one. Look at him, here in a casino whittling away to his game funds, and for what? To see a number? To think, in vain, that perhaps he had a chance at winning that number in real life as well as the card table?

He didn't know why he was still trying. The whole ordeal was an exercise in gambling futility. The deck was stacked against him, any way you looked at it. But it had become an obsession in the short time since he'd discovered the game. He hadn't been able to get that fucking kid out of his mind for hours, and this wasn't. Helping. His early assertion that a stiff drink would help matters had, in fact, made them so much worse.

Eyeshield 21. God, he was so sexy behind that mask, when he was really trying. When he could hide behind the false persona that he, Hiruma had given him, he was someone else. But he was equally as lovable, as molestable when he was himself, wary and shy, especially around his high-maintenance quarterback. The cowering in fear was a huge turn on, as if Hiruma's raging libido really needed the extra fuel…

Hiruma liked power. He'd never met anyone, living or dead, he couldn't manipulate. His little black book was different from other peoples, though it did contain phone numbers, along with other intensely person bits of data. But none, or next to none, on Kobuyakawa Sena. Every time he'd attempted to stalk him, he'd ended up in a bathroom somewhere, with the door locked firmly.

But why the fuck were the cards coming up against him every damn time? One win, just one, was all he wanted, all he craved, and at this point, he was willing to kill for it.

"Hit me," he snarled, taking the safety off one of his many guns and placing it where the dealer could see it. It was now or never. Just that one number, and he could die happy. Drunk people aren't normally rational, but at that moment, Yoichi Hiruma took the cake in crazy.

The card came, the dealer's hand trembling. Hiruma stared at it through his drunken haze. Five. That was a good start, a nice, solid number. "Hit me." Six. "Hit me." Four. "Hit me." Five again. One over one next time, and he was out, his drug-addled mind managed to think. My number for his. How ironic. No, not ironic. Horrible. "Hit me." Two. One ace had been all he asked for, and destiny had tempted him. So close… so close, and yet so terribly far.

Two.

_Two._

It was really a cruel joke. Outraged, whether at the bastard dealer or the world, he swept the cards, chips, and bottle from the table. The glass crashed on the floor and shattered, sending shards and drops of alcohol everywhere. "Damn you," he screeched, aiming the gun at the dealer's head. "Damn it all-" The drink was too much. Eyes rolling back in his head, he crumpled into a heap on the dirty ground.

"Hey buddy," the dealer called as he lost consciousness. "Do you got anyone to pick you up?"

Sena walked in, searching frantically. He'd been supposed to meet with Hiruma hours ago over the next day's strategy, but the captain had never shown up. That wasn't like him, and Sena was worried. "Um," he addressed the stunned dealer, "have you seen my friend? He's… oh, no…" he caught sight of his quarterback, laying face up on the floor in a pool of gin and glass.

Sighing, he pulled Hiruma up as far as he could, and attempted to drag the older, taller and heavier boy up three flights of stairs… Exasperated, Sena searched for other options. Why did he have to be like this? It made things so difficult… but he had to admit, Hiruma did look sort of handsome in the low light, his fangs gleaming in that cast by the flashing signs that Vegas was famous for.

He didn't like it, but there was only one option left. In the team, you were a family. And families, at least the well-adjusted ones that Sena had never had any experience with, took care of their own. How many times had Hiruma done something for him?

Hiruma woke, still drunk, still angry, and now about one thousand dollars poorer, in the hotel room belonging to the unwitting object of his lust. Further more, that person, who he'd just blown most of the team's funds on, was staring him in the face. His first response was to snap, but, and maybe this was the four beers he'd had before the gin acting for him, all he did was stare back. "Sorry," Sena muttered, his cheeks flushed. "I was just seeing if you were okay…"

"I'm better than okay," Hiruma muttered, catching his running back's arm and dragging the boy onto the bed next to him. "And don't apologize, fucking chibi. If I get any hotter over this, I might end up jumping you right now." Sena struggled briefly but, considering the fact that this may not be so bad, and was at least better than being shot at constantly, made no further move to leave.

Hiruma grinned in the darkness. Perhaps, after all that wasted effort, the cards had finally come up in his favor.


End file.
